Gravestones and Rainbows
by watchingthewind
Summary: It's once again the time of year for Madara to visit his brother's grave in mark of it's three year anniversary. Usually travelling in solitude, will this time prove to be different? HashiMada.


A rarity it was to see storm clouds gathering in the mid-summer. A rarity it was for speckled drizzle to fall from the heavens and bath the parched landscape with a thin sprinkling of much needed water. Even with such heat, there was always a breeze to counter it; the often humid atmosphere seeing to it that the vegetation stayed lush and green. A steadily growing village was in the palm of this season, wrapped in its heated fingers. The residents were used to it, but were by far grateful to have the freshness of the ongoing light rain, even if it would only be for a short time.

Footsteps hit the damp ground of a path seldom travelled, and when done so, always with subconscious reluctance. They belonged to a man, one of great power and authority. He was well known throughout the village he helped create, being a co-founder; however, he wasn't the one the citizens hailed and praised for its creation. He was the one whom was feared, very gaze alone seeming to be enough to make some run away in fright, few having the nerve to even make eye contact. He never cared for those cretins, however, so no bother was brought by it.

The man of usual pride and confidence had his head hung low, dampening raven hair shadowing empty black pits of onyx eyes. For him today was no ordinary day, for it had a much darker meaning to it.

He arrived at a tree; it was still very much a young one, only several feet above the raven-haired man's head. It wasn't the tree he came to see, it was what lay in front of it. A gravestone. Being dull grey in colour, it was a standard, flat stone. Engraved down it were kanji, spelling out a name. It was a name that could spark regret. A name that could stimulate sorrow. A name that held so much significance to the visiting man. Uchiha Izuna.

Three years. Three years had passed since his death. The despair Madara felt since then had dulled down into a numbness, a chasm of emptiness in what remained of his heart. For the first two years after the incident, he battled many things, physically and mentally. The most overwhelming of which, was depression. The clan leader had sunken so low as to have thoughts far more than once of ending his own life. The darkness that festered deep within overwhelmed him, though temporarily ceased his quest for power, to replace it with a hollowness. He turned into a shell of a being, only performing mindless duties and battles as his life simply continued on. During those times, once the village had been founded, there was one spark of light that could sometimes push its way through the darkness, and to the person within. The one man regarded as light, or even the sun itself.

Senju Hashirama.

The rain had worsened as the Uchiha stared down at his younger brother's grave with dead eyes, the water having soaked his clothing and hair. Droplets slid down his face, from far off, it may have seemed as though he were crying, although he wasn't. Madara's tears were all shed long ago. A sudden shiver ran down his spine, but he didn't let it show visibly. He knew someone had approached him from behind. He was surprised when no voice spoke up to him, as it would on regular days. Instead, faint footsteps followed as the one who followed him here came and stood beside him; silently. For a few brief moments, silence fell other than the sound of the rain, as two men paid their respects to the dead.

Clouds overhead begun to disband, the rain easing off back into a faint drizzle. A hand had been placed on to a damp shoulder, the head of a brunette turned to face that of a raven with a gentle, understanding smile.  
"Let's go, Madara." A voice finally spoke, moving to face the direction back towards the heart of the village, hand falling back to his side. A nod followed.  
"Very well, Hashirama."

As the two men walked side by side back into the population centre, both failed to notice the wash of colour formed from a small puddle at the base of the gravestone; a rainbow. With all that transpired within closed minds, surely this one reflective phenomenon, so simple yet beautiful, was the emblem of times better to come.


End file.
